


Scenes of Surrender

by Rasborealis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Bottom Draco, Dom Harry, Dom/sub, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Secret Relationship, Self-Harm, Sub Draco, Top Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6080019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rasborealis/pseuds/Rasborealis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco just wants to keep his head down and finish his last year at Hogwarts. He's not supposed to let his mask slip, and Harry isn't supposed to care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flailing

**Author's Note:**

> Further exploration of the Drarry BDSM theme, this time from Draco's PoV. Unbeta'd, not brit-picked.

_Some days, all it takes is a single encounter. Dennis Creevey still shrinks back from Draco when they run across each other in the hallway, like nothing has changed, like he expects Draco to pull out his wand and hex him for the hell of it._

_The thought makes Draco sick. He sneers, mask firmly in place, and then he stumbles into a nearby bathroom and runs cool water over his wrists, stares at his own pale face in the mirror as he tries to remind himself that he is no longer that person._

_Some days, the self-hatred threatens to consume him whole._

_He sits alone at breakfast and chokes down a few bites of food because that's one of his rules, no skipping meals, and it makes him feel a little better to be following it. His posture is stiff and unzielding, but if he keeps his head down, he can evade most of the looks people still give him, the sort that tell him he's not worth the dirt under their fingernails._

_Like he doesn't know that already._

  


  


**Chapter 1**

  


“Mind if I sit down?” someone asked.

Draco looked up and straight into Harry Potter's eyes. The savior of the wizarding world was standing in front of him, face flushed, an open bottle of firewhisky in one hand. His hair and shoulders were covered in silver glitter and tiny purple stars. More than likely they were from one of the many balloons hovering just beneath the ceiling, which exploded at random intervals and showered whoever happened to be standing beneath him with their contents. Draco strongly suspected Lavender Brown of procuring them for the party.

But he had to admit that the savior looked good, glitter and all. The rebuilding of Hogwarts and five months of school had done Harry favors. He filled out and he carried himself well, which was, to be precise, the exact opposite of Draco.

Wordlessly, Draco slid to one side of the bench, making room. Harry took the invitation and sat.

“Not interested in the Exploding Snap tournament?” he asked with what sounds like forced cheer.

Draco shook his head. He certainly wasn't in a partying mood. The only reason he was here at all was because Pansy and Blaise had bullied him into it. Not that they bought into the whole inter-house unity project any more than he did, but they knew better than to stick out these days. Keeping your head down was the new Slytherin mode of operation, which was why Draco wasn't entirely comfortable with receiving attention from Harry all of a sudden. But he knew better than to say so.

“I've been meaning to talk to you,” Harry said.

“Really? To what do I owe the honor?” Draco drawled. His fingers twitched – a tick he'd acquired during the war, which wouldn't leave him. He was nervous, and not entirely sure why.

“Er...” Harry ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “Look, Malfoy, I know this year hasn't been the easiest for you-”

Draco laughed. He couldn't have held it back for the world. The understatement was just that priceless. Harry looked taken aback for a moment, but then a self-deprecating little smile appeared on his face.

“I could have worded that better,” he admitted.

“I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Potter,” Draco said. “The Malfoy name is obviously as revered as ever, these days. Why, clearly my father is held in the most luxurious cell in all of Azkaban. What more could I ask for?”

Harry looked sheepish for a moment, which amplified the gnawing feeling of self-loathing that had become Draco's constant companion. What in Merlin's name was he even going on about? He knew as well as everyone else that his family deserved every punishment they'd gotten; the seizing of their accounts, the Azkaban sentence for his father, the house arrest for his mother. Draco himself had gotten off so lightly it was almost ridiculous. It made him feel like scum. He still carried himself well these days, posture and expression maintained with what little pride he had left as to hide the mess beneath.

“Anyway,” Harry muttered. “I just wanted to, well, ask if you're okay.”

Draco took a deep breath.

“Right as rain, Potter,” he said coolly, and decided there and then that he'd had enough of the party. Screw Pansy and Blaise and inter-house unity and all of that. He was going back to the dorm, where he would fight and probably lose to the temptation of slipping beneath his blankets and pretending the world outside his bed no longer existed.

“Do excuse me, Potter,” he drawled as he got up, stepping over Harry's legs just as a balloon exploded overhead and showered both of them liberally in green sparkles. With a muttered curse, Draco stalked off, barely just catching Potter's half-open mouth and forlorn expression.

Draco didn't like it. The sooner Potter left him to his own devices, the better. He could already feel the stares that had resulted from Potter simply sitting next to him on the bench, the other eighth years wondering what in the world they could possibly have to say to each other, after everything.

Nothing, that was what. And the sooner Potter realized that, the better.

  


_Some days, he can barely make it through his classes, he's too busy being horrified by the things he has done, and by the things he has almost done. Those days are the ones when Harry heads him off before dinner, takes him by the arm and leads him to the out-of-the-way bathroom. He pushes him inside, locks the door and casts a few privacy spells as Draco falls to his knees in a rush of gratitude and affection, and the mask slips._

_  
_


	2. Falling

_The golden evening sun shines into the room and warms his skin. The wrought-iron window grills make shadowy patterns on the tiles. Despite chipped sinks, dull mirrors and exposed pipes, this room has become Draco's favorite in the entire castle, and he barely suppresses a shiver of anticipation when Harry finally turns his attention to him._

_Strong fingers comb through his hair. Pleasure and calm spread through Draco's body. He feels less screwed up when he can make Harry happy. It seems to be the one thing he's good at these days – and he can appreciate the irony._

_He isn't even pretending that he's not eager for this. There is nothing but blunt honesty and dark need between them, and, after such a long time, a deep understanding of each other's desires. Because Draco isn't the only one who needs this, not at all._

 

 

**Chapter 2**

 

Potter sought him out again six days later. Draco had made himself a little sanctuary in the library, a spot in a far corner behind stacks of books, where he could get his work done without getting looks and having to deal with anyone. At least, so he had thought. He needed to study, needed to do more than well if he was to have any chance at all at finding employment after leaving Hogwarts.

He was just seven lines into his essay on alternative uses of Dittany when a throat cleared, the sound familiar. Draco looked up and into green eyes.

“Mind if I sit with you?” Potter asked.

Draco only shrugged. He didn't have the right to refuse a request like this, not these days. He couldn't imagine what Potter could possibly want from him that warranted tracking him down like this. He hadn't done anything. He stayed out of everyone's way with an efficiency that bordered on compulsion. His need for solitude defined him these days. If he was alone, huddled in a corner or in his bed, he couldn't get caught up in anything bad.

“You barely ever eat,” Potter burst out, hand tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh. Draco's own fingers twitched in sympathy. “I just... why don't you eat?”

“Not hungry,” Draco responded succinctly, and dipped his quill in the ink. But Potter didn't let it go.

“Malfoy, you've got to eat. You've lost so much weight... your robes are hanging on you like...” Potter trailed off, frowned. “Is this about punishing yourself?”

A jolt of fear shot through Draco. Potter wasn't supposed to be this observant, this smart. He wasn't supposed to care about anything Draco did, the same way that nobody else cared these days. Not even Pansy had remarked upon his eating habits, and he'd thought she would be the one if anyone would.

“Why Potter,” he said, carefully keeping his voice from shaking and instead infusing his speech with a healthy amount of disdain, “have you been _watching_ me?”

“Yes,” said Potter, steadily. “I'm worried.”

“About poor little death eater me? Whatever for?”

“Because, Malfoy.” Potter's face took on a mulish look. “Because everyone has suffered enough from the war, even you. I don't want this to keep going, all the hate and the fear. And you just... you're not right. I can see you're not.”

Of course he wasn't right. He hadn't been since the war, and never would be again. Trust Potter to state the bloody obvious.

There was subdued laughter, coming closer, and Draco could hear Finnigans voice complaining about his malfunctioning wand. Draco and the entire rest of the class had witnessed it acting up in Charms, where it had stubbornly insisted on creating soap bubbles every time Finnigan tried a simple cheering charm. A moment later, Finnigan himself came into view, followed by Thomas and the Weaselette. As they smiled at Potter, Draco shrank in on himself, fingernails digging into his own wrist.

“Quidditch, Harry?” asked Thomas, and only then seemed to notice who Potter was sitting next to. “What are you doing with the Death Eater?”

Draco stared hard at his parchment, the lines swimming before his eyes. _One possible use for the stem of the plant..._

“He's still a person, Dean.” Potter sounded annoyed. “I saw you flirting with Parkinson at the Halloween Party, you know. If you can forget all about her trying to hand me over to Voldemort, you can stop calling Malfoy a Death Eater.”

Merlin, that name. Draco would never get used to Potter casually using it in conversation, just like that. He would never be able to hear it without flinching, without flashing back to those months of terror and fear and disgust at himself and everyone around him, retching after he was forced to torture, to-

His nails dug deep enough to draw blood. A pearl of it welled up, dark against his pale skin. Draco focused on it and tried to blend out his surroundings.

“It's not the same,” Thomas muttered. “Not even a little bit.”

“Anyway,” Finnegan piped up, sounding decidedly more cheerful, “as Dean said, we were wondering if you'd like to join us for a friendly game of Quidditch. We've got seven people together, two keepers, five chasers, need one more to make the teams full. What do you say?”

Draco prayed Potter would just say yes and go away already. And someone up there seemed to be listening for once, because a moment later he heard the scraping of chair legs, and Potter's deep sigh. “All right. Fine.”

Draco waited until they were all gone before deliberately dragging his nails further down his wrist and welcoming the stinging pain that seemed to do so much to help him breathe.

 

_Draco's chest rises and falls in a hypnotizing rhythm. Through his lashes, he peers up at Harry, who stares at him like he's starved and Draco is a full breakfast. They read each other's faces, communicate without words. Eventually, Harry smiles, and its warm and open._

“ _I know you need to be punished,” he says. “I saw your face in class. Something happened. Tell me.”_

_And Draco does._


	3. Wanting

_Draco has poured his heart out to Harry before, and he will again. When he's on his knees, there are no boundaries between them, no secrets he can keep. It's all out in the open, his self-disgust and his fear of the future, his embarrassment at his bad choices, his past behavior. Harry listens, face intent. He nods once or twice, stroking Draco's hair, and the whole thing is terrifying and wonderful all at once._

_When he's finished, Harry's fingers briefly tighten in his hair before he lets go._

“ _Down,” he says. “On your stomach.”_

_Draco obeys. He lies on the cold, grubby tile, thinking only that he deserves to be there. He's nude, helpless, and the feeling sweeps through him so powerfully that he shakes like a leaf from head to toe._

“ _Shh,” says Harry. The tip of a wand touches Draco's neck, is dragged lower and across one shoulder blade. Draco tenses in anticipation. And then there it is, the sudden sensation of a modified stinging hex. Draco flinches and hisses through his teeth as his skin is set on fire._

_Again. Again and again and again, pain lances through Draco's back, and he revels in it. Bit by bit, it starts to strip away all his barriers, to cleanse his emotions and his mind._

 

 

Chapter 3

 

It happened in Charms, as the class practiced basic silent casting. The only sounds in the classroom were Flitwick's voice, encouraging and praising, the occasional shout of triumph whenever someone managed to Summon their designated handkerchief from across the room, and of course Finnegan's cursing whenever his wand acted up again. So far, he had managed to singe Granger's hair, turn his handkerchief yellow, and make the room smell like lavender, and Draco was just thinking that it was high time Finnigan had Ollivander take a look at that worthless piece of wood he was waving around. Once again, Finnigan shot a glare across the room and raised his wand.

There was a flash of green and Draco felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. Several people screamed, and from the corner of his eye, he could see Potter going pale.

_That voice, mocking and cruel, giving him his task... the wind breezing through a long, white beard, the light leaving a pair of twinkling eyes... the sensation of falling..._

Draco ran. He bolted out the door with no idea where he was going, nothing before his eyes but the green that seemed to have seared his retinas. All he knew was running. He found himself stumbling against a wall, his knees hitting hard tile as he retched. Body shaking and heart racing, he curled into a ball.

“Malfoy,” someone called out. He tried to make himself smaller, but then there was a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Malfoy, nothing happened. It was just... just the light.” It was Potter's voice, close to his ear. “Just the light,” he repeated.

Draco was shaking. “It looked... like...”

“I know.” Potter's voice wasn't entirely steady. “I know. It spooked me too. Everyone's pretty shaken up, I think.”

Draco frowned at the floor as he tried to remember what he could about his flight. He saw Potter only at the periphery of his vision. “I was the only one who ran though, wasn't I?”

“I think so.” There was movement, and Potter dropped to the tiles, sitting comfortably. “Does it matter?”

Draco gave a bitter chuckle. His pride was stinging, but that wasn't the important bit. He knew how everyone would be talking for the rest of the day, and probably even longer than that. How the Death Eater couldn't handle the reminders of what he'd done. How Malfoy dared to think his pain was worse than that of people who'd seen their friends and family die. He had heard it before. Now it would just flare up again.

“Why are you here, Potter?” Draco asked tiredly.

“Because... I don't know,” Potter admitted. "I was just concerned."

Draco banged his head against the wall. It seemed to be the best answer to that inane statement, and it helped a little in letting him come back to himself.

“Don't!”

“I'll do whatever I like,” Draco said slowly, savoring the words. His temple throbbed. He was still shaking.

“Okay, fine, yes, but...” Potter sighed. “I'd prefer it if you didn't hurt yourself. I don't want anyone hurting.”

“But I deserve it,” Draco said blankly.

“No, you don't.”

But Potter was wrong, had to be, since Draco carried that knowledge with him wherever he went. Every look thrown his way told him so, every whispered word. He scratched at his wrist, digging his nails in, but a hand grabbed his to stop him, so Draco snarled and banged his head against the wall again. And again, and again, and again, until it felt as though his skull might split, and even then he kept going, until-

A new sensation registered, burning. He could no longer move his head the way he needed. Potter was _pulling his fucking hair_. Draco growled with frustration and pulled against the grip.

“Malfoy, don't!” Potter cried.

But Draco didn't listen, he was too busy savoring the new pain, because even this he deserved. Suddenly, it felt less like a punishment and more like an absolution, and when Potter loosened his grip, he wanted to howl with mental anguish at the loss.

“Do it again!” he demanded without thought.

Potter stared. “What?”

“My hair. Pull it again.”

“I... no! Why would you say that?”

Draco lunged for Potter's wrist. His arms were shaking madly as he tried to get his former adversary to tighten his grip.

“Please,” he panted, “please!”

“Malfoy, I can't just-”

But then Draco was banging his head against the wall again, cracking the tile. He felt fingers scrabbling for a better grip.

“Okay, okay.” Potter sounded panicked. “If I do this, will you stop trying to hurt yourself?”

“Yes,” Draco breathed.

Then there was silence, and Potter made a face of displeasure but he _pulled_ , and Draco's scalp was on fire and it felt like all he'd ever wanted.

It was wonderful. He closed his eyes and he embraced the pain, and bit by bit, he managed to calm himself. His body relaxed. His breathing evened out. When Potter finally released him, he only sighed and let his head fall forward.

In his head, finally, a bit of peace.

“What in Merlin's name was that?” Potter eventually broke the silence.

Draco smiled slowly. “I don't know,” he said. “But I needed it, so thanks.”

“I don't understand.”

“Neither do I,” Draco confessed, and wondered why he wasn't more shaken by what had just happened.

“I should go back to class,” Potter said awkwardly. “Are you going to be all right? I'll... I'll tell them you went to see Pomfrey for a calming draught.”

“Fine,” Draco mumbled, and swayed. He felt heavy, suddenly. All the energy seemed to have drained from him.

Only after Potter's footsteps faded did he realize that he still had a serene smile on his face.

 

_By the time Harry's finished with the stinging hexes, Draco is a moaning, sobbing mess. His entire back is on fire, his body throbbing, his cock hard against the tiles. Fingertips skim the inflamed skin._

“ _You're going to have welts for a while,” Harry says, sounding as happy about it as Draco is to hear it. He loves the marks, the reminders. They help keep him going long after their session is over._


	4. Needing

_Draco spreads his legs and whimpers. It's a visceral response to the slowly fading pleasure-pain, making him want to be mastered, claimed, making him want to be lost in the sensations forever. He wants to belong to Harry, and the instinct isn't satisfied until fingers bury themselves in Draco's hair and wrench his head to the side and back so Harry can put his mouth on the sensitive skin of Draco's throat._

_There's tongue and teeth and suction. Draco moans, arches his back and demands more, which earns him two sharp slaps on the thigh. Harry gives him everything he needs, but not always what he wants, and he always takes his time with Draco._

_It's hard to be patient sometimes._

 

 

**Chapter 4**

 

For the next two weeks, Potter avoided Draco, and Draco avoided him right back. It was quite a feat considering they shared a common room, classes, and the 8 th  year table in the Great Hall, but they managed surprisingly well, and since the two of them feuding was nothing out of the ordinary, no one paid them the slightest bit of attention, which suited Draco just fine.

Embarrassment at his strange behavior hadn't set in until hours after the fact. He had since experimented with the hair-pulling, but to his disappointment he hadn't been able to recreate the floaty feeling of peace. Scratching his forearms had a tendency to calm him, but the effect was so minuscule Draco thought he would have to scrape his skin right off before approaching anything like what Potter had given him.

It was, truth be told, rather maddening. And Draco continued picking at his food and saying nothing in any of his classes, and his life almost felt like it had before Harry Potter had found him in a bathroom and pulled his hair out of some strange concern for Draco.

Then came the day when Slughorn paired them together in Potions. Draco was the one to get the ingredients for their Allergy Alleviator, and by the time he returned, Potter had set up their cauldron. Draco dropped herbs onto the cutting board and was completely unprepared for a hand to snatch his own.

Potter looked down at Draco's wrist and frowned. It was fairly clear at what – Draco had scratched himself raw not three hours earlier, and swelling and redness still peeked out from beneath the cuff of his shirt.

“Why do you do that?” Potter asked.

Draco swallowed hard as he rearranged the herbs, separated them out and reached for his silver knife. “You know why.”

Potter probably didn't, in fact, at least not all of it, but Draco just wanted the conversation over with so he could focus on the potion. To his irritation, Potter kept right on talking.

“I asked Hermione-”

“You what?” Draco snarled, actually dropping his knife. It fell to the floor with a bright sound. Luckily the room was so full of noises and voices that the slip went unnoticed.

“I didn't tell her it was you! I just... well, I described to her what happened, and she said that it was possible for pain to release endorphins, and-”

Draco wrenched his wrist out of Potter's grip and bent to pick up his knife. “Do not,” he said in a clipped voice, “talk with Granger about me. Do _not_.”

“I didn't know what else to do.” Potter remained infuriatingly calm. When Draco turned his attention to the herbs and started chopping, Potter sidled up right next to him so he could keep talking into Draco's ear. “You have to admit, what happened was worrying. I don't want you to hurt, Malfoy, no matter what you may think. I want to help you fix whatever is wrong.”

Draco chopped herbs and crushed roots with fury. Potter just stood there, looking earnest and slightly puzzled, and Draco itched to slap the expression off the git's face.

“I don't need your help,” he ground out.

“You have it anyway.”

Draco cursed Potter's saviour complex at the same time he realized that it meant Potter wasn't going to let this go.

“Fine,” he said. “Meet me in the same bathroom after dinner tonight. We can talk then. I'm not letting you bring down my Potions 'O'.”

Potter nodded, apparently satisfied, and started sprinkling beetle wings into their cauldron. Since he didn't seem to be counting them, Draco paused chopping and did it for him, internally rolling his eyes all the while.

He spent the rest of the day trying to think up a way to get Potter to leave him the hell alone. By the time he went to the little bathroom he had inadvertently discovered during his panic attack in Charms, he still hadn't come up with anything, and when he saw Potter already there, pacing, he sighed and closed the door, feeling like his Slytherin mind had failed him.

“I want you to leave it alone,” he announced.

“I won't,” Potter said predictably.

“Why not? Why do you bloody care about what happens to me? You don't like me, Potter, so don't pretend you do.”

“I don't hate you either,” Potter said evenly, finally stopping his pacing and turning to Draco. “I used to think I did, but... the war put that into perspective for me. I already told you I don't want anyone suffering any more, and that includes you. I know you went through a lot in the war as well. I'm sure you have nightmares too. Has Madam Pomfrey forbidden you Dreamless Sleep yet? I can't take it any more.”

“I can't either,” Draco admitted tonelessly.

“I figured.” Potter scratched the side of his face. “When I was talking to Hermione I realized... at least I have people to talk to, those who know what I went through. It makes it easier. I don't think you have anyone.”

“I have Pansy and Blaise,” Draco countered automatically.

“But do they know what happened, while you were at the manor? The things Voldemort made you do?”

Draco shook his head. No one but his parents knew – but his father was in Azkaban now, and he couldn't talk to his mother, not about this. Never about this.

“ _I_ know,” Potter said slowly.

Draco's head shot up. He hadn't realized he had lowered it.

“Know what?” he croaked.

“The things... some of the...” Potter trailed off and sighed. “I had a mental connection with him. I could see things through his eyes sometimes. Things like, well, you, and what he made you do.”

The words numbed Draco. To know that Potter had watched him torture people...

He felt sick. His hand flew to his wrist and started scratching the already sore skin before he even thought about it. Potter lunged for him, and Draco stumbled back, keeping his hands out of reach. Didn't Potter understand he needed this?

“Malfoy, stop!” Potter pleaded with him. “I don't like seeing you do that.”

“I don't care.” Draco scratched furiously. “I don't care I don't care I don't care.”

As the delicious stinging sensation made Draco's eyes water, Potter stood there, watching him silently. Eventually, he opened his mouth, sighed, and then asked, “Would it help if I pulled your hair again?”

“Probably.” Draco was beyond caring. He had scraped the very top layer of his skin right off, and now everything stung.

He was unprepared for Potter to take two long steps, grab his wrist with one hand, immobilizing it, while the fingers of his other hand sank into Draco's hair. He pulled with such brutality that a cry of surprise and delight escaped Draco as his head was forced back and his throat was bared.

“Yes,” he hissed through the haze of pain. “Yes, just like that.”

Draco was unsure what happened next. It felt like an orgasm, except his body was doing nothing but hurting and it was his emotions that suddenly felt amplified and intense, hurtling towards some peak he didn't understand, and then everything went bright white with physical and emotional pain.

He went slack in Potter's grip. There was a wall, and he was leaning against it, he realized slowly, as he came back to himself. The hand in his hair was no longer pulling, but instead Potter's fingers were rubbing soothing circles on his scalp.

He felt calm. So blessedly calm.

“What was that?” Potter asked.

“That,” Draco whispered, “was amazing.”

 

_He feels Harry hard against him, and the expectation of things to come makes him shudder. He wants that cock buried inside him, wants Harry to take him, hard and brutal, to hurt him even as he fucks him. Whimpering again, he arches his back and rubs up against that promising bulge. His entire body is begging, and by the time Harry finally lets up on his throat and makes a calming sound while stroking his hair, Draco feels like weeping._

“ _I know,” Harry says, soothingly. “I know, soon, I promise. Soon.”_

_But Harry is still fully dressed, and Draco doesn't like it. He spreads his legs some more, trying to be enticing. It earns him another slap._

“ _Please,” he whispers, fully aware that Harry likes hearing him beg. “Please Harry, please, please, please.”_

_A kiss on his jaw, another on his shoulder as Harry slowly draws back from him._

“ _Say it again,” Harry says._


	5. Hurting

_Draco isn't one for dirty talk, it makes him feel humiliated. But he knows that's precisely the point. It's the same reason he's lying naked on the dirty floor of a bathroom, with Harry hovering above him fully dressed._

_Humiliation makes him feel hot and flushed and, for some reason, more aroused than he would be otherwise, even as he wants to sink into the ground. And Harry likes hearing how much he's needed, likes that Draco is willing to overcome his embarrassment just to please him. So he plays Harry's game._

“ _Please Harry, please fuck me, I need it so much. I want your cock in me, Harry. I want you to fuck me wide open. I_ need _it.”_

_His face is burning. But then he feels fingers coated in lubrication probing at his entrance, and he tilts his hips up, wanting._

 

 

**Chapter 5**

 

They came to an arrangement.

On those days when Draco felt he needed to hurt, they would meet in the bathroom in the evening. At first, Draco communicated his need by narrowing his eyes at Potter across the Great Hall during dinner. Soon, however, Potter started anticipating him – because he looked more agitated in class, Draco supposed – and heading Draco off before dinner. Once, it happened when Potter was with Weasley and Granger, and Potter said something to them with a smile and a small wave before stepping right up to Draco. The two other members of the Golden Trio didn't seem surprised at all. Weasley rolled his eyes and Granger smiled fondly at her boyfriend before they turned and continued on their way.

“What did you tell them?” Draco demanded to know as soon as they were out of earshot. He felt betrayed and upset.

“That you needed someone to talk to.”

“I don't-”

“Look, Malfoy, I don't like lying to my friends. They would have figured out that something was going on eventually, if I never told them where I was off to instead of going to dinner. This way, they think it's just talking. And they promised not to tell anyone, so your secret's safe.”

Right.  _ Gryffindors.  _

But the idea of those two knowing any kind of weakness about him didn't sit well with him, and when the time came to submit to his pain, he was preoccupied. The thoughts kept intruding, despite the wonderful sensations his scalp was giving him.

“I need more,” he gasped. 

“I don't want to pull any harder,” Potter said. “I'll end up pulling your hair out.”

“Something else, then.”

“What?”

“I don't know, just... please!” Draco squirmed, and Potter reacted, pinning him against the wall with his free arm. “Do something!”

Potter studied his face for a moment. Draco's vision was hazy, but he could still see the look in Potter's eyes changing to one of determination, just before he ripped aside the collar of Draco's shirt, popping the first few buttons, and bit down on Draco's shoulder.

Draco hadn't expected it. Maybe that was why his knees went so weak, and he leaned against Potter with an embarrassing gurgling whimper, the sound bouncing through the room. His hair was still being pulled, and now Potter's teeth were sending his nerve endings a different sort of pain, and both of these together sent him spiraling away from anything resembling coherency. Heat rose up in him, all the way from his toes to the top of his head, and he could feel his skin flushing. He was hard, suddenly, achingly hard, and he couldn't bring himself to be embarrassed about it. He was too busy savoring the sensations and reaching the high of pain and pleasure that seemed to be what he lived for these days.

When he came back down, he found himself clinging to Potter and panting into his neck. His legs shook madly, there was a soft buzzing sound in his ears, and he was slick with sweat. Potter was holding him a little awkwardly, half propping him against the wall, and Draco didn't understand why until a few minutes later, when he could finally stand on his own and Potter let him go, just to turn away and quickly adjust himself.

Then Draco finally noticed that he wasn't the only one whose skin had a flush, or the only one who was breathing a little faster than normal. He was still the worse for wear, but it was undeniable that what had happened had an effect on Potter as well.

Draco pretended not to notice. The last thing he wanted was for Potter to get self-conscious, to stop their arrangement. That would have been unacceptable. So he willed down his erection and buttoned up his shirt, forcing himself to maintain a bored, neutral expression as he nodded at Potter and left the bathroom.

The gentle buzzing in his ears didn't stop for quite some time.

 

_Draco screams when Harry enters him in a hard, long thrust. It's rough and painful and everything Draco wants, and his throat stings as he gasps for air. He feels himself throbbing around Harry's cock. His body burns. His hands are desperately grasping for something to hold onto, and with a single-mindedness bordering on obsession, he pushes back into Harry's thrusts. Finally they are skin on skin, and he can hear Harry panting with exertion, but the pace doesn't slow one bit. Draco feels consumed, feels owned, and with the slight bit of breath he has left, he begs for more._


	6. Begging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally planned on this being the last chapter, plus a short epilogue. Because of the kind feedback, however, I was inspired to write more, so this story is now longer than I thought it would be. Thanks to everyone who has commented, and please continue to do so.

_It burns so good, and Harry is everywhere. There is a flash of new pain as Harry's short nails dig into Draco's neck, his other hand pinning Draco's wrist to the tiles. Everything is hard and rough, but Draco can sense the feelings beneath, the softness, and the knowledge makes him shudder with joy and wonder every single time. The noises they both make are animalistic, the juxtaposition jarring. A scream tears through him, and just like that, Draco comes undone._

_His mind floats. It's paradise._

_For a long time, Draco knows nothing at all._

 

 

**Chapter 6**

 

That night, Draco had another nightmare. It was all cackling laughter, pairs of eyes following him, a high, cold voice in his ears as he ran through the dark manor in search of the exit. Nowhere was safe any longer, not when they were watching his every step, waiting for him to fail and be punished some more. His aunt, gleefully telling him she couldn't wait to _Crucio_ him on His Lordship's orders. His father, standing by, watching with sunken eyes and unable to help him. His mother, looking so much older than she was.

He awoke, soaked with sweat and still feeling the unsettling fear he seemed to have taken away from the dream. It was always like that, always seemed to follow him from his sleeping into his waking hours and shake him up for long hours afterward. Kicking off the blankets, Draco sat and tried to calm his racing heart. The rest of the dormitory lay dark and silent, and his suffering amidst the content dreamers made Draco want to scream, so they'd know, so someone would know what it was that his head did to him. But of course, they wouldn't care, no one would. Except, perhaps, one person.

Sliding out of bed, Draco failed to find his shoes in the dark and left the dorm barefoot, trying to keep Harry Potter firmly off his mind. And still, his wandering brought him to the bathroom that had become theirs weeks ago. He sat there, huddled in a corner, and tried to remember the emotions that flooded him every time he was here with Potter, the content peacefulness. He thought about how Potter had held him just hours before, how his teeth had sunk into the flesh of Draco's shoulder, and he wished Potter was here right now to do it all again.

A noise made him look up. It was the door, opening with a creak, and then Potter appeared as though out of thin air. Draco blinked and stared, stupidly wondering for a moment whether this bathroom was in actuality some sort of offshoot of the Room of Requirement, and whether it had simply read his mind. His dismissed the idea as soon as he saw that Potter was in his pyjamas, a cloak in one hand and a piece of parchment in the other.

Draco stiffened his back and tried to look as proud as one could while huddled up on a bathroom floor.

“Potter,” he said.

“Malfoy,” Potter replied evenly. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same.”

“I came to talk to you.”

“How did you know I was here?” Draco asked suspiciously.

Potter sighed. “Not important right now. I'll tell you later. Why are you sitting here?”

With all those secret, personal things Potter knew about him already, it made little sense to lie.

“Had a nightmare,” Draco muttered.

A hand came to lie on his shoulder. Draco didn't even flinch at the contact, like he would have done some weeks ago. He had gotten used to having Harry's hands on him, and wasn't that just an odd little fact?

“What do you need?” Harry asked.

A strange sort of tension hung in the air between them. Draco registered it even while he wondered what to say in response. As Harry's thumb brushed the silk of Draco's pyjamas, he felt something like the crackle of a magical build-up. It was strange and a bit worrying.

“I don't know,” Draco whispered.

Harry's hand wandered up his neck, palm stroking his skin, and then his fingers twisted in Draco's hair. He tugged lightly, and Draco closed his eyes in response. His heart was pounding in his chest like it had after the nightmare, but that was the last thing he was thinking of just now. It was all Harry's closeness – and when had Potter become _Harry,_ anyway?

“There's something I think you might like,” Harry said. His hand left Draco's hair, and suddenly he was kneeling in front of Draco, unbuttoning his pyjama top. “I need your bare back for this.”

“All right,” said Draco, but he made no move to help Harry, who had dropped his cloak and that piece of parchment, who looked so _eager,_ suddenly, to hurt Draco – and maybe it should have alarmed him, but he felt flattered instead. Silk brushed against his skin as his sleeves slid down his arms, and his nipples hardened in the cool air. Harry had taken out his wand and crawled behind Draco. He had one hand once again on Draco's shoulder.

“I practiced these on my forearm,” he informed Draco. His thumb stroked along the line of Draco's neck. “They're safe. Won't leave any permanent marks or anything.”

“Get on with it, then,” Draco growled.

A second later, he felt the stinging hex hitting his skin. His cry was more one of surprise than pain, although it did hurt – in the best way. How Harry had discerned that this was something he needed, he didn't know, but it worked. Over and over, Harry touched the tip of his wand to Draco's back, until Draco was a shaking, sobbing mess, hunched over with his palms and forehead on the floor.

“Please,” he groaned, and didn't know what he was asking for, only that the gut-wrenching need was killing him. “Please.”

He begged and begged through the stinging hexes, wondering faintly just how much of a mess his sore back had to be by now. This was different from before, from hair-pulling and biting, which seemed like child's play compared to the deep, dark need that Harry was bringing to the surface in him with this.

“It's okay,” Harry kept murmuring, and “Trust me, Draco,” and “You're safe, I'm here,” and he seemed to know at the same time everything and nothing about what he was doing to Draco, deep down inside. Draco couldn't control his shaking, and Merlin, he needed, he _needed_.

Then the wand dropped and Harry's fingers were in his hair, and his head was pulled up sharply, and then Harry was kissing him so hard that Draco lost himself in it completely. There was nothing but lips and tongue, teeth and taste, a hand still in his hair and the other around his waist while Draco clung to Harry like he was drowning. He moved closer as though he wanted to crawl into Harry and be consumed whole, but all he managed was to situate himself on Harry's lap and rub against him to stoke that white-hot fire even further. Harry groaned into his mouth, and then his hips were moving too, hastily, without finesse. It was clumsy and hot, and it took no time at all until Draco came in his pyjamas with a cry and with Harry biting his lip. Harry himself followed soon after, pressing his face into Draco's neck as he shuddered.

Draco had never felt such peace. He couldn't bring himself to move, to fear, to be embarrassed. The fingers running through his hair were perfection, the chest he was pressed against rose and sunk in a hypnotic rhythm that kept him calm. Not even when Harry spoke was that peace disrupted.

“Draco, we should maybe talk about this.”

“Just don't go,” Draco whispered.

“No. I won't.”

For the first time in a very long time, all was right with the world, and he felt like a child again, running through the manor carefree and happy instead of with terror in his heart.

 

_When Draco comes to, he's in Harry's arms. He has no recollection of getting there, but that's normal when he flies high, so it doesn't worry him. He feels warm and protected. It's all he needs._


	7. Wishing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long absence, and a great big thank you to all the lovely comments I've received on this piece during that time. I suffer from cyclical depression among others, and it's been a difficult few months. I'm doing better now. Hopefully this new chapter meets expectations.

_Draco loves the aftercare. It makes him feel as treasured as the pain does, in its own way. Harry gently guides him back to reality with loving words and hair-petting and a potion rubbed into the sore skin of his back. His solid presence is always near, reassuringly, and most of the time, he is touching skin as though to make sure Draco knows he's there. Draco likes Harry fussing over him. It's a shock to his system every time the pain takes hold of him and wrecks him, and while he_ could _do without, he really doesn't want to._

**Chapter 7**

“You need to eat better,” Harry said, skimming fingertips over the spot where Draco's pointy hipbones were hidden under his trousers. “You're so thin. It worries me.”

They were sitting out by the Quidditch pitch, where it was chilly and windy and where they couldn't be overheard. Regular warming charms kept their fingers from freezing to the point of pain. Draco had just been putting his wand away when Harry commented on his eating habits.

“I never have much of an appetite,” he said.

“Still.”

There was a moment of silence. They both knew why they were there, but it was difficult to breach the topic. Draco waited – because after all, Harry was the Gryffindor – but when there was only more silence and some awkward shifting, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I need this,” he said bluntly, making himself vulnerable. “I don't know what I'd do if you stopped.”

“I'm not really planning to stop.”

The relief Draco felt at those words was overwhelming. In so short a time, he had come to depend on Harry and their sessions, on the relief they brought. For the first time since the war, he was able to sleep more than a few hours at a time, sometimes even through the night.

“Good,” he said, and moved on to the next thing his mind kept fretting about. “Though I can tell you aren't a Slytherin. Else you would already have started bargaining for something in return.”

“That's assuming I get nothing out of this.”

“Ah. So... you like hurting me?” Draco wasn't sure what to think about that.

Harry shook his head. “That's not it. I... it's hard to explain, but I like... that you let me see you like this. I like that you trust me with this. And I like that I can help you. It's not just altruistic, it makes me feel better too.

Thinking about the wet spot in Potter's pyjamas that had matched his own the night before, Draco smirked. “Clearly.”

Harry flushed. “I didn't mean that. Though it wasn't... unwelcome.”

Draco nodded in acknowledgment. They lapsed into silence once more.

Then Harry shifted, reached for his wand, and, after casting another warming charm, cleared his throat. “Is there anything that you want me not to do? Anything you might not like?”

Draco thought.

“Don't slap my face,” he said eventually. “My father did, when he was really upset at me. It only happened twice, but I won't react well to it. And don't... don't break any bones or give me scars.”

“Of course not,” Harry said at once. He sounded vehement, even disgusted, and there was something in his voice that made Draco wonder what exactly Harry's history was with that sort of violence. He didn't dare ask.

“I'll still tell you first if I want to try something new,” Harry said. “Like the stinging hexes.”

Draco nodded, mouth dry and belly tense with longing at the memory. “And just don't, _don't_ tell anyone,” he emphasised.

“I swear I won't. I'll stick to my story about us talking about war things, which, by the way, if you want to actually do that, I wouldn't be opposed.” Harry ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “I wouldn't mind people thinking we're friends.”

Draco considered that.

Harry cleared his throat again. “I wouldn't mind being friends, actually. If you want.”

Draco froze. At first, he thought he had misheard. After nearly eight years of hurt and regret and  revenge, after so much wishful thinking over the scene on the train at the beginning of their first year, he could not actually be getting this. They weren't children any more, and those juvenile grudges had long since paled against the horrors of the war, but still, he had always assumed that... well.

“If you like,” he said, trying to sound unconcerned, but his feelings were betrayed by the scratchiness in his voice.

“Friends, then,” Harry said, and stuck out his hand. “But,” he said as Draco shook it and tried not to to feel overwhelmed, “I have conditions. Not on the friendship. On the other thing.”

“Yes?”

“I want you to take proper care of yourself. I can't hurt you if you're already hurting yourself, if you're not strong enough.”

“Care to put that into concrete terms?”

“Three meals a day. No skipping. Even if you don't want to eat, try to get down at least a little something.”

“I can do that,” Draco said after some consideration. He would have agreed to a whole lot more to ensure that Harry kept doing what he was doing.

“Good. And... I want you to promise that you'll tell me if it gets to be too much, or if there is anything more you need. I can't read your mind. So you have to tell me.”

Swallowing hard, Draco nodded. He ripped out a blade of grass and twirled it between his fingers. This was really happening. They were formalizing their arrangement.

“And then,” Harry said, pausing to look at Draco, “there is one more thing I have to know, and I need you to be honest.”

Draco nodded sharply.

“Do you feel like you deserve the pain?”

Draco looked away and plucked another blade of grass. He took some time to think about the answer before he gave it, and Harry, thankfully, didn't push.

“Sometimes,” he said eventually. “If something happens to remind me of what I did, then yes.”

“So it's punishment.”

“More like absolution,” Draco said, realizing it was true the moment he said it. “Afterward, I feel better. Like I've suffered, and it's over with, and I'm allowed to forget just for a little while.”

“It eases your conscience.” Harry sounded understanding, and not like he was judging, even though he should have been the first one to do so.

“Yes.” More grass fell victim to Draco's numb fingers. “But part of me craves the pain for its own sake and I... I don't really understand it.”

“You're being remarkably open about this,” Harry said.

Draco barked a laugh. “Who else to do it with than the one who's already witnessed me beg for it?”

Harry tilted his head, as if to concede the point. Then he sighed and climbed to his feet and put his hand on Draco's shoulder.

“Tonight?”

“Tonight,” Draco agreed with a dry mouth, remaining seated and shivering in the cold wind as Harry wandered back to the castle.

 

_They make their way to the kitchen, hidden beneath Harry's invisibility cloak. Draco is wrapped in a cosy robe Harry has transfigured from a blanket, feeling warm and safe with Harry's arm around him. He's still shaky from their session, but much less so than immediately afterward._

_Draco huddles up on a stool as Harry shoos the house-elves away and cuts him bread and cheese, presses a goblet of water into his hands. Draco is actually hungry after their session, starving, even. He's sure Harry is happy to see it, and he hopes he will kiss him again before sending him off to bed._


	8. Breathing

_Some days, he feels utterly unworthy of what he has. Everyone's glares make his skin crawl, and he knows they're thinking he doesn't deserve his freedom, or even his life._

_“Death Eater scum,” he hears them whisper, and he knows it's true. The mark on his arm makes denial impossible. It makes him feel horrid, dirty, low._

_These are the days Harry claims him, makes Draco his. He etches words into Draco's skin with his wand, welts that will be red and throbbing for days before fading._

**Property of Harry Potter.**

_It grounds him to know that he is marked, makes him feel like he might belong, after all._

 

**Chapter 8**

 

The weeks went on, and Harry kept up his end of the bargain. Together, they met Draco's needs in their little bathroom, and outside of it, they tried to be friends.

It was not an easy undertaking. Astonished stares and whispers followed them the first time they walked together between classes. After keeping his head down all year, being the center of attention wasn't something that Draco was at all comfortable with, especially when it took the form of open hostility and accusations being thrown at him.

_How dare he defile Harry with his presence? How dare he look anything but cowed? How dare he be happy when so many are dead?_

 Soon, he was careful not to be seen with Harry outside the eighth year common room, and that was it for their attempt at open friendship.

It all seemed so simple when Draco was in Harry's arms, in his lap, basking in his afterglow. It was more difficult when Harry was sitting in the library, doing his homework with Weasley and Granger and the likes of Dean Thomas, and Draco passed their table with dark thoughts in his head and need burning in his belly, but he didn't manage to catch Harry's eye and tasted wistfulness in his mouth when Harry joked with his friends.

He couldn't help but wish himself among them. He couldn't help but wish he could touch Harry outside of their sacred time together in their bathroom, or, hell, sometimes his ridiculous mind imagined kneeling by Harry's feet right in the middle of the Great Hall and letting everyone see who he belonged to. But it wasn't his place. He wasn't the Saviour, he was the Death Eater, an afterthought, and he was supposed to be thankful he had as much as he did.

The next time they met in their bathroom, it was an emergency. Draco was beside himself with mental anguish, he could barely even think clearly enough to get to the right room. There was a thunderstorm raging outside, harsh lightning illuminating the bathroom at irregular intervals. Draco huddled up in the corner and hoped that Harry would know to look for him here when he wasn't at dinner. He couldn't bear facing anyone else.

“I heard,” Harry said when he finally entered. His cloak was wet, he had to have been outside until recently. “You were cornered by Ravenclaws?”  
Three Ravenclaws, one Hufflepuff, two Slytherins trying to distance themselves from the wrong side of the war. Their faces were burned into Draco's memory.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked. “Did they hurt you?”

“It wasn't what they did,” said Draco, because it was true. He could handle a few curses and hexes. “It's what they said.”

Because it was one thing to know he was hated, but another thing entirely to look someone in the eyes as they told him he should have killed himself after the war if he had any decency at all. Like casting curses and hitting dead center, they had pelted him with the truths Draco tried so hard to fight. That he was a coward. That he wasn't worth the dirt under Harry's fingernails. That he should have joined his father in Azkaban. That the world would be better off without him.

He couldn't help but think they were right.

“Why don't you hate me?” he asked Harry, feeling lost. “You should be hating me.”

“I could never hate you.”

“But you should,” he insisted, trying desperately to blink the tears out of his eyes. Thunder sounded in the background.

Harry sighed and sat comfortably on the floor, close to Draco. “Tell me what they said,” he requested – no, Draco realized suddenly, he was _ordering_. Harry took his hand. “Tell me all of it.”

So Draco did. With a face like stone, he repeated everything he remembered, every last nasty word, the heartfelt wishes that he would drop dead, _disgrace, Death Eater, filth_. Years of tormenting Harry flashed through his mind, of the hatred he had felt for the other boy for such a very long time. All the cruel laughter. Trying to get the blasted Golden Trio in trouble when they had been nothing but snot-nosed first years. Dressing up as a Dementor, hoping to make Harry faint mid-air. Pointing a wand with the Cruciatus curse on his mind.

“They're not wrong,” he said eventually into the silence. There were a few tears running down his face; he wiped at them ineffectually with his sleeve, embarrassed.

“Oh, Draco,” Harry said, very quietly. “They're dead wrong.”

“No.”

They were still holding each other's hands. Draco lowered his head,

“Don't hurt me tonight,” he requested shakily. “I couldn't stand it.”

“What do you need, then?” Harry wanted to know, standing up.

“Nothing.”

“Don't. Don't lie to me.”

Outside, lightning streaked across the sky. Draco's heart gave a jump in his chest and then clenched. There was no way, no way he could ask Harry for anything more than what he was already getting out of this. He got to his feet and looked into Harrys eyes.

“I don't want to be greedy and selfish,” he said.

 Harry's arm came around him. “Be greedy and selfish, Draco. Please.”

“I just, I need...”

“What? What do you need?”

“You,” Draco whispered, and prayed Harry hadn't heard him over the rolling thunder.

But he had. His hand came up to cup Draco's cheek, and he pulled him close for a kiss. Their lips met clumsily. The intimacy of the moment was painful. Draco's pulse pounded as Harry deepened the kiss, tongues meeting and tangling, and he clung to Harry desperately. There was something between them that was new, intense and frightening. He couldn't breathe.

Hands unbuttoned his shirt with haste, greedily slipped beneath to touch his chest. Draco moaned and leaned into the warm touch. He felt dizzy, shaky. No longer thinking, he crashed to his knees. His hands were shaking with eagerness as he popped buttons, sought skin. Finally, he managed to free Harry's cock, and even though they had rubbed off against each other countless times, he had never gotten to look or touch before. This was new. This was... wonderful.

Draco shifted his hand, which drew a gasp from Harry. The movement was calming, back and forth like the tides, and Draco loved it. He licked his palm for lubrication, like he did on the rare occasion when he pleasured himself, and tried for simple enjoyment of the act. The knot in his gut was still there, but it was no longer quite as tight, not now when he had Harry before him with his eyes closed and his lips parted, barely suppressing a moan. He, Draco, was doing this. He was making Harry feel pleasure.

It had never felt so significant before.

It felt like giving back just the tiniest bit of what Harry was giving him. Draco watched with wide-open eyes, taking in everything he possibly could; Harry’s face, the flush of his skin, the noises he didn’t seem embarrassed to be making. He took all of it and treasured it, vowing to remember for the rest of his life how it felt to be like this, with the one who understood him better than anyone else. He bent down and used his tongue to make it all even better, swirling in circles and spirals and tracing joyful shapes on spicy-tasting skin, and it was all just so fucking perfect he wanted to cry.

“Draco,” Harry said, voice full of wonder and desperation.

Blinking fast, Draco dove down until his throat constricted. The tears he spilled might have been from choking. No one was in a position to claim otherwise, and the lack of breath felt, in its own way, like absolution. 

 

_Draco wears the welts to Transfiguration class, he wears them to dinner, he wears them to the Quidditch game, and the neverending hatred barely touches him. Cool and proud he stands and lets the vitriol slide off him like water off an oilskin. Where only hours ago he was a horrid mess, now the throbbing, chafing marks remind him that he has worth in Harry’s eyes, and it means everything._


	9. Doubting

_The tension between them is so thick and solid Draco thinks he can reach out and grasp it with his fingers. They skip class because neither of them can stand to wait any more. Harry marks Draco with tongue and teeth, a series of love bites, dark purplish-red and glaringly obvious on Draco's fair skin. He runs his nails down Draco's back, scratches him raw. And Draco wants more, more marks, more pain, wants to feel like Harry's property in every way._

_“Use me,” he begs, meaning it with every fiber of his being. “Please, use me.”_

 

 

**Chapter 9**

Things were different, after that time during the thunderstorm. It wasn’t a glaring difference, it was a subtle one, so subtle that Draco didn’t even notice at first. They continued to meet, and Harry hurt Draco, and Draco was on his knees and begged for more until the rush of it made him dizzy. But the way Harry treated him, during and after…

He was no longer worried, Draco realized right in the middle of one particularly intense session, watching Harry brandish his wand to shoot hot sparks at Draco that stung and fizzled on his skin. There was no hesitation, no clenched jaw that indicated Harry’s inner turmoil over what they were doing. He’d grown comfortable with his role. He was calm and confident and there for Draco to lean on if he needed it, and it was all so much more than Draco deserved.

He found himself yearning for touch, for Harry’s touch, even when he wasn’t at his worst. It was more than coping, at this point, it was pure want, a luxury. But he thought he was good at hiding it. He thought that until they were both up late one night, studying in the 8th year common room. Draco rubbed his temples to chase away the beginnings of a headache, and he was contemplating turning in when he saw movement from the corner of his eye. A moment later, Harry crouched in front of him.

“Relax,” he said in that new, calm and confident tone of his, and his hands framed Draco’s face. “Close your eyes.”

Much as Harry might not have meant to make it one, it was an order to Draco. He followed it, feeling Harry’s breath on his face as Harry started tracing slow circles with his fingertips. It felt good, soothing. But then Harry’s lips pressed slowly against his, and Draco froze, remembering that there wasn’t a locked door between them and the rest of the world, as there usually was when Harry kissed him. This was out in the open. Someone could have walked in at any time. Someone could have witnessed what was between them, and then where would they be?

Out in the open, that was where. And, much as Draco wanted everyone to know he belonged to Harry now, he couldn’t see it ending well. People would be so shocked. Reactions would be even worse than they had been when they had appeared in public as friends, and well-meaning students would reason with Harry, telling him the many reasons why this was such a very terrible idea.

Draco didn’t want to think about that.

Harry kissed him again, more deeply this time, licking the seam of Draco’s lips until they parted and allowed Harry’s tongue to slip between them. Draco’s hands came up to clutch at Harry’s shoulders, and then they were pressed against each other, lost in the kiss but for the nagging doubts and fears in the back of Draco’s mind.

“Someone could see,” Draco finally breathed when they separated, shaking a little bit.

Harry didn’t respond.

 

~~~

 

Draco thought about the kiss a lot over the following days, and each time the sinking feeling in his gut got stronger. Nice as it had been, Harry clearly hadn’t been thinking when he’d crossed the room to comfort Draco. They hadn’t been in their bathroom, not in their safe little world where it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. Draco was afraid that if anyone found out about them, it was only a matter of time until everything he held in his hands right now would crumble apart. Harry wouldn’t want to alienate his friends, and why would he? Certainly not for someone like Draco, following in his wake and begging for scraps. The sooner someone reminded Harry of what he was worth, the sooner he would leave Draco to his own devices.

And he knew, pretty words by a Quidditch pitch aside, that it would happen eventually.

His fingers twitched with nervous energy as he roamed the hallways after classes, deep in thought and wondering how to save himself from the worst of the fallout. It would ruin him.  

He was afraid of the pain, the ugly, emotional one, that would tear him apart. He was afraid of that unspecified time in the future when he would no longer have Harry to help him cope. He was afraid of being found out, of everyone knowing how much of a wreck he had become, of how needy he was, how dependent.

He was afraid that one of those days, he would blurt out how he really felt and that would be it for them. Harry hadn’t said anything about the matter, but surely he’d noticed the way Draco couldn’t help but look at him. He couldn’t stop himself from wishing Harry was his, really his, and he was afraid the emotion was written all over his face whenever Harry stripped him down to the core.

 

~~~

 

Harry noticed his new mood eventually. He wasn’t the most observant person, never had been, but Draco had nothing to hide behind when it was just the two of them. Every slight hesitation on his part became suddenly glaring, and before long, Harry was holding Draco’s head in his hands, stroking his temples and asking, “What’s wrong? You’re… not yourself.”

“Just hurt me,” Draco muttered, frustrated and upset.

“Doesn’t feel right when I don’t even know what’s going on with you.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

But this time, Draco had to. He couldn’t talk about this. Just couldn’t. So he shook his head, frustrated, seeing the emotion mirrored in Harry’s features. Swallowing hard, he pulled away from the touch he craved.

“I’m not doing this, then,” Harry said.

The words tore through Draco like a lance of ice. Here it was. This was the end of everything he’d had, and Merlin, it hurt. It hurt.

He opened his mouth, throat dry, and forced out a single word. “Fine.”

“Draco…”

“Leave it,” he said, jumping to his feet, nearly slipping on the smooth tile. “Leave me.”

And he ran.

 

_Harry uses him; Harry damn near_ breaks _him, and it’s just so good. There are fingers inside him, lubing him up the bare minimum, just enough so he doesn’t bleed, and Draco’s lips move incessantly as he begs and begs and begs. Harry breathes hard on his neck, bites his shoulder to keep him still. Harry spreads him open and enters him, making Draco scream out at the rough treatment. It’s beautiful. It’s everything he needs. They move against each other with single-minded breathlessness, hard and rough, fingernails scratching so deeply they break skin and send forth a trickle of dark red blood that mingles with the sweat Draco is dripping._


	10. Breaking

_The sting is delicious, and he loves it, he loves it all so much. The words rush to his head and escape him in the frenzy of their coupling, he can’t hold them back for anything._

_“Love... love this, love you, love you so much, love you…”_

_“Yes,” Harry breathes, and the one word carries so much meaning. His grip on Draco is tight and sure as he thrusts.“Yes, Draco, yes.”_

_“Love you,” Draco moans again, and now that he’s finally gotten the words out, he feels so wonderfully free._

 

 

**Chapter 10**

 

For eight days, Draco avoided Harry’s eyes and stayed away from their bathroom. He went through classes in a haze, always present but never quite there. He started skipping meals again, because it was easy to do when no one cared. Such a simple matter to pretend that nothing had ever happened between Harry and him, as long as he kept himself lost in the haze of his own mind and didn’t so much as glance in the direction of the Gryffindors.

He was in the shower when he realized that the last of the marks on his body had faded. There were no more bruises to connect him to Harry, nothing tangible he could cling to. It was well and truly over. He was alone, again, and for good. He hadn’t thought it would hurt quite so much.

Draco clumsily crouched on the slick tiles, nearly falling. He put his head in his hands, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to sob.

 

~~~

 

He was sitting in the library, trying desperately to catch up on his neglected homework, when Granger found him. She didn’t say anything right away, just sat next to him and opened her Arithmancy book. His concentration went out the window immediately. When Draco tried to move away, she placed her hand on his arm, making him jump. No one had purposely touched him since Harry.

“What?” he asked, voice scratchy in his throat.

“What happened between you and Harry?” she asked softly. “You spent so much time together, and now… now you look like you’re ill and he’s moody and irritable all the time. There is something not right, isn’t there?”

Draco stared at his hands and tried to figure out why he wasn’t just walking away from her. Hearing news about Harry was what did it – he was like an addiction, and simply hearing the name flooded Draco with a warmth he hadn’t felt in days. Merlin, he _needed_ so badly.

“Why don’t you ask him?” he muttered, eyes still low.

“I did.” Granger sighed, her grip briefly tightening. “Look, Malfoy. I don’t presume to know what Harry and you are doing whenever you go off together. I think I have a fairly good idea, but… well.”

Draco shifted and tried to keep his fidgeting under control as his body went suddenly cold.

_I described to her what happened_ , Harry had told him once, _and she said that it was possible for pain to release endorphins…_

Oh, Merlin. Granger knew.

“My point is,” she continued, oblivious to his shock, “that you two were helping each other heal. I want Harry to be happy. He’s earned it. He was well on his way, but now he’s backslid into brooding and his temper is just horrid. I need to know how I can help fix this.”

Draco would have laughed out loud if he’d had the energy.

“You think you can swoop in and make things okay again?” he rasped, looking at her for the first time in the conversation. “You… you have no idea, Granger.”

“But that’s why I’m asking!” she cried out, jumping up and wringing her hands. “Tell me how to fix this!”

“There is no fixing it,” Draco snarled, agitated now. “What will you do, make me good enough for him somehow? Change the past? Make everyone forget the bad things I’ve done so Harry won’t look at me in disgust? What, Granger?”

She was silent then, and looked at him with so much pity in her eyes that he didn’t want to see.

“You think he’s ever looked at you with disgust? Truly, Malfoy?”

Draco didn’t know what to say to that, and he stared at her, feeling lost, until she shook her head at him, gently patted his arm, and walked away.

 

~~~

 

Draco found refuge in the calm and repetitive work of brewing. Tucked away in a far corner of the dungeons, he went about the business of squishing eel eyes with his silver knife, chopping rat tails and nettles and counting under his breath as he moved his stirring rod. His skin felt flushed from the heat of his burner. His nose stung from the fumes, and his fingers were stained a greenish brown.

He had no idea how long he had been at his work when he heard the echo of footsteps coming closer. Even though he tried hard to ignore the sound, truth was that few people had good reason to come this way unless they were looking for him. Whether it was another gaggle of students looking to torment him, or perhaps Slughorn wanting to chase him out of the room, he didn’t know, but either way he had no desire to be interrupted.

The last thing he expected was Harry making his way past the heavy door, pushing it shut before turning his attention to Draco.

Even a simple “What do you want, Potter?” was too much for Draco to manage. He opened his mouth and closed it again, then turned away, reaching for the wormwood on his workstation instead. He tossed it into his mortar and grabbed his pestle.

“Draco,” said Harry.

Draco tried to ignore the tingling sensation the single word caused to run up his spine.

“Hermione talked to me,” Harry blurted out a moment later. “She said… well, she said a lot of things, but mostly, I think, she wanted me to know how awful you’re feeling. I tried to give you space. But that backfired, didn’t it?”

Draco started pounding the wormwood with his pestle. Harry didn’t let that deter him.

“I shouldn’t have refused to touch you. I’m sorry about that,” he said amidst the steady rhythm. “I just really wanted to make sure you were okay. I was afraid I might go too far otherwise, do something neither of us would be comfortable with. You’re… far more important to me than the feeling I get when I hurt you, I hope you know that.”

He seemed to choke on the last sentence, but got it out eventually.

Draco kept pounding, eyes firmly on his work. He didn’t want to think about Harry’s words. It was no use to go back to what they had, only to have to go through this same pain again when it ended. He would have to stand firm.

“Draco,” Harry said, very gently. “I… I miss you. I miss what we had. Tell me how I can fix this.”

Draco nearly laughed when Harry used the same words Hermione had. They all thought this was something that could be repaired, simple as that.

“I can’t,” he muttered, and promptly regretted having said anything at all.

“Then at least tell me why.”

“Because… because…” Draco tried to wrestle the words in his head into some form that would make sense when he spoke them aloud. “Because you won’t always want me,” he said eventually. “And I can’t deal with that. I can’t.”

Harry stared at him for a very long time, Draco knew that even without looking his way. He waited for the inevitable protest and tried to prepare himself for it. He didn’t actually expect Harry to get as angry as he did.

“How dare you tell me what I will or won’t feel for you?” Harry growled. “I’m sick of decisions being made on my behalf, you know that? Did you ever think about asking me how I felt? No, of course not. That would have made sense, and we can’t have that now, can we?”

Draco finally lifted his gaze, staring. Harry was pacing. His face was dark, his feet kicking the uneven stones of the floor as he stomped around.

“I’ve been having to deal with this all my life, you know,” Harry said. “People making decisions about my life. People making assumptions about me, and having all these stupid expectations. I thought the worst would be over by now, with the war over, but this… this I didn’t expect. I didn’t think you’d do that to me, not after everything. I want to live my own life don’t you get it?”

“And I’ll leave you free to do that,” Draco forced out.

_By staying away from you._

Harry gave him a dark look. “You don’t understand anything at all,” he said, and stormed out of the room, eyes blazing with so much determination that Draco knew this wasn't the end of it.

 

_He’s flying, soaring, with Harry as his anchor and his guide. Nobody else could ever do this to him, with him, because nobody else understands him like this. It feels almost like they are one person in this intimate moment, when Draco stops feeling his body entirely and feels his soul tumbling through the air like a kite in a windstorm, joyful and free. He knows he isn’t alone, that Harry will catch him, will care for him, will never give up on him, and it’s that knowledge which enables him to be utterly fearless._  


End file.
